


The Case of the Missing Pearl Earring

by Mira



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tea, milk, and bullets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Missing Pearl Earring

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the patient and brilliant [Lady of Asheru](http://lady-of-asheru.livejournal.com).
> 
> A post-Irene Adler story.

John pushed the doorbell again, then shoved his hands back into his pockets and huddled deeper in his jacket. "F-fucking freezing," John muttered, envying Sherlock his enormous black coat. He found himself pressing closer to Sherlock, who ignored him. At last the door opened. An attractive and very well dressed middle-aged woman looked out, frowning, and crossed her arms against the cold wind. A sudden gust powdered her pale blue sweater with a light dusting of snow.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said and gestured toward John, "and my colleague Doctor John Watson. You are Emily Brown."

Her frown deepened. "Very funny." She shut the door. John looked at Sherlock who for once appeared gobsmacked. He pounded on the door until she re-opened it.

"Look, I --" She glanced behind her and lowered her voice. "I don't know who you are or what you think you're doing, but Ms. Holmes has already resolved the, the issue. Go bother her." Before she could shut the door again, John wedged his boot between it and the door frame.

"Sorry," he said without apology.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said firmly. "Whomever you met before was _lying_." Oh, as if you don't lie through your teeth when it suits you, John thought, but Sherlock still heard him and glanced at him. "And this is John Watson."

"Joan."

"I beg your pardon?" John said.

"Her name was _Joan_ Watson. Is she your sister? There is some resemblance." Emily Brown made a gesture toward her own face. Harriet was four years older than John, nearly two inches taller, her face red with rosacea from the drink, and her hair was currently dyed auburn, so it couldn't be Harry. He and Sherlock stared at each other for a moment.

"What about, er, me?" Sherlock finally asked.

Ms. Brown studied him. "Well, she was tall, thin, had short dark curly hair, and wore a long black cloak." She smiled thinly. "A cloak she liked to swirl around her quite dramatically." Her frown returned. "Who are you two? Why are you here?"

"I'm afraid there's been a mistake," John said before Sherlock could erupt. "We really are Sherlock and John, not Joan, and you sent an email to Sherlock's website The Science of Deduction. I'm a little concerned about two women masquerading as us. You can understand that."

"Why should I believe you?" she asked, and shivered. Glancing over her shoulder again, she went on hurriedly, "Look. I can't invite you in and it's freezing out. Meet me at the Starbucks -- one street up that way, then two to the left. Give me ten minutes and I'll be able to leave."

Sherlock stared at her and John could feel the ferocity of his concentration vibrating the air around him, disturbing the blowing snow. "If you don't come, I will return and I won't leave until you do explain yourself."

She made an irritated face, then shooed them away. "Ten minutes," she whispered as she closed the door.

"What the hell?" John asked, pulling at Sherlock to encourage him to wait out of the cold at Starbucks rather than on this freezing and inhospitable doorstep. After he teetered on the top step, he acquiesced and they hurried away.

This was a nice neighbourhood, John thought as they slogged through the muddy snow. The houses had handsome steps with brass or pewter railings and the front doors were painted in rich colours like maroon and forest green, and many had fanciful knockers in the shape of dolphin or faces. Emily Brown's door had had a highly polished oval with a pearlescent button in the centre; he had been glad he was wearing gloves and so hadn't smudged it when he'd rang.

He tugged at Sherlock's sleeve and hustled them out of the wind. He had to duck his head; even though it wasn't snowing, the wind caught up the most recent snowfall and tossed it wildly, so it went into his eyes and ears and nose. He snorted inelegantly, then pulled open the glass door. Cinnamon-perfumed warm air rushed out and he shoved Sherlock through. "Wow," he said, stamping his feet. Sherlock, of course, just looked around as if he'd never been in a Starbucks before. "Coffee or tea?" he asked him, but naturally he was left to guess.

Only a few tables were occupied: two girls, their heads together as they pored over a magazine; an elderly man rubbing his nose with a red handkerchief whilst staring avidly at a Page 3 girl; a middle-aged woman texting on her smartphone. Behind the counter several young people milled, one cleaning a large carafe, another scrubbing the sink, and a third smiling at John. "Two large and very hot black teas," John said.

Sherlock stepped next to him. "Make one of the teas an espresso con panna," he said. "In fact, make the other tea a caramel macchiato."

"I know what I want, Sherlock," John said irritably.

"No you don't," Sherlock responded. The youngster smiled at them (boy? girl? John wasn't sure; they had a shaved head, wore earrings, and seemed pretty flat-chested, but something about her struck him as female. Well, Sherlock would know.) "And two cinnamon swirls," he added, and paid.

He herded Sherlock toward a table near the front window. "Eat the, the swirl," John told him firmly. "There's some evidence that cinnamon is good for you when it's cold."

"How very empirical of you," Sherlock said, but he took a bite of the pastry and sipped his macchiato.

"Who do you think would masquerade as us?" John asked but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and did not deign to answer. "Jesus, that's pretty brazen. And how stupid of that woman not to know we're men."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked. "Where on my website do I mention gender?"

"Well, the name _Sherlock_ is pretty ambiguous, but _John_ is . . ." John trailed off. "You never mention me on scienceofdeduction.com, do you? Arse." He bit into the pastry as if biting into Sherlock.

"Don't be grumpy. I will rectify that tonight."

"I've got a bloody link to your site from mine, you know," he said through a full mouth.

"Do you want me to link to your blog?"

"Of course I do! We might get more cases, and thus a bit more income, which we _need_ ," John said, but then Emily Brown appeared. She stared at the Starbucks windows, clearly unsure whether to enter. Sherlock rapped sharply on the glass and she started, then entered. Nodding at them, she went first to the counter and after paying finally came to their table. John rose. "Please, have a seat, Ms Brown."

"Thank you." She arranged her coat and bag, tossed her (straight, blunt cut, ash blonde) hair so her dangly earrings chimed, and looked steadily at Sherlock. "So you claim I have been duped."

"I don't claim it; it is the truth. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is John, not Joan, Watson. Please tell me everything you can about these impostors."

The androgynous barrista stopped singing along with the soundtrack that played, Mabel John's _Your Good Thing Is About to End_ , to call "Emily?" John decided the barrista was a she, then felt guilty for forcing people into a gender binary. He knew Harry would yell at him and Clara would look disappointed. He and Sherlock watched as Ms Brown retrieved her coffee. She gazed steadily at Sherlock as she returned to their table.

"The two of you, or rather, the four of you," she amended, including John in a glance, "are rather alike, in general terms. My Sherlock was, as I said, tall, slim, with short dark curly hair, high cheekbones, and dressed elegantly. Her scarf was an exquisite silk one. I recognized the pattern as a vintage Hermés." John knew he looked blank when Brown said to him, "A grey _J'aime mon Carré._ Joan Watson was shorter, rounder, and wore a jumper and jeans not unlike the ones you're wearing. She also smiled a lot," and John stopped smiling because, really, he didn't smile _that_ much unless you compared him to Sherlock, which of course, everyone would. Shit.

"You said the issue had been resolved," Sherlock said. "Would you explain further?"

Brown shrugged, a tiny elegant movement, and sipped her coffee. "One of my pearl earrings went missing after a party we held. Ms Holmes and Doctor Watson took notes and returned in two days with the earring. I paid them." She looked narrowly at Sherlock. "I have no complaints about their behaviour or the results."

John saw Sherlock open his mouth so he quickly said, "I don't suppose they left you a business card, or gave you a phone number or email address?"

She sat back, looking surprised. "I'd forgotten, but yes, Doctor Watson did." She snapped open her bag and began looking through it. If her purse was anything like Harry's, John knew it would take a while, so he ate more of his cinnamon swirl and kicked Sherlock under the table, pointing with his chin at Sherlock's plate where the pastry sat with one lonely bite missing. Sherlock ignored him. At last, Brown pulled out a leather wallet just the size of business cards and flipped through it. "Here," she said.

  


"That's not our number," John said, peering around Sherlock's arm to see. "That's not your card at all."

Brown handed it to John. "I will have no more use for it," she said. She sipped her coffee, looking placid, but John could feel tension emanating from her.

"Have you called this number? Or tried the email address?" Sherlock asked.

She shook her head. "I had no need. As I told you, they returned in two days with the missing earring."

Sherlock studied her closely. John knew he also felt the tension. "You're lying," Sherlock said slowly, but with such confidence that John knew it was true. "They're blackmailing you. What do they want?"

"Not my earrings," Brown said dryly, and for the first time John felt kindly toward her. She set her cup down carefully, sat up straighter, and tossed her hair again.

"If you want my help -- Sherlock Holmes's help -- then tell me the truth," Sherlock said. His eyes were narrowed and intense; John was certain that Sherlock already knew what had happened. When Brown remained silent, Sherlock said, "You do not have the earring." He bit his lip, then said, "You wrote to me first. I remember your email, but I could tell it was a tissue of lies and ignored it."

Brown sighed heavily, drummed her fingers for a few seconds, and said, "Yes, of course you'd remember, and yes, I'd cobbled something together to -- to avoid explaining what really happened." She finally met Sherlock's gaze. "It was almost a joke, writing to you."

Well, John thought, sitting back, that was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock scowled at her.

"Everyone in my circle has heard of you," Brown explained, "because Taylor Smith, the murder mystery writer, follows Doctor Watson's blog." For a change, Brown looked at John. "She was especially impressed with The Study in Pink."

"Thank you," John said, pleased and embarrassed. He glanced at Sherlock, but found him with his fingers together and beneath his chin, elbows resting on the table. His thinking pose. Brown and John waited. John finished his pastry and tore off a piece of Sherlock's.

At last Sherlock said, "All right, since we're here, tell me the sequence of events. And don't lie to me ever again."

She looked irritated again -- John thought she might often be irritated -- but simply said, "Of course." She took a sip of her coffee and began. "It wasn't anything. Just -- frivolous, it was a frivolous affair of less than two weeks, while my husband was in Dubai on business. His personal assistant has always been kind to me, letting me know when Daniel would be late or when he planned to have someone to the house." She looked into her cup, still nearly full of coffee, and said, "He is a very handsome young man. Intelligent, witty, and fun." Then she looked straight into Sherlock's eyes. "Everything my husband no longer is."

Sherlock said nothing. John wondered what he was thinking. Did he understand Brown? John thought of how Sherlock had acted around that prick Sebastian and decided he probably did. "How long?" John finally asked when Brown remained silent.

She glanced at him as if she'd forgotten he was there. "Daniel was in Dubai for two weeks. For two weeks, Jamie and I . . ." She trailed off. "Had an affair," she finally said. "Had fun. It wasn't all sex," she explained, again looking at Sherlock. "Jamie is a responsible employee; he never neglected his work. But he took me to lunch, to dinner, to the theatre. To some club full of young people dancing to impossible music." She smiled to herself. "And so I took him to bed. Four or five times, no more. And never again," she added more quietly.

After a lengthy pause, Sherlock said, "The earring?"

"Yes, of course. That was at the club. I lost it dancing, or maybe in the ladies, I don't know, but when we -- when I went to bed that night I realized it was gone. The loss of the earring didn't worry me too much. It's valuable, and Daniel's mother gave it to me, but not that valuable and of course she would understand losing it. But I liked those earrings, and I love Olivia, she has been very good to me, so I wanted it back. I thought if nothing else, it would make an amusing story for my friends. So I wrote to you."

"How soon did you hear from Sherlock, this other Sherlock?" John asked.

"Quite promptly, though it was Doctor Watson who answered my email. She arranged to meet me --"

"Where?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"At an Italian restaurant on Northumberland Street."

John and Sherlock locked gazes for a moment, then Sherlock nodded. "Continue."

"I had been under the impression from Taylor that Doctor Watson was male, but I'd never read the blog, just heard a few stories, so I had no reason to doubt them. They were professional. Joan took notes while Sherlock asked questions. We had some wine and, well, I liked them, so I told them everything."

"You told them the truth."

"Yes."

"So you gave them the motive, means, and opportunity to blackmail you."

"Well, yes. Apparently."

John asked, "How much did they charge?"

"Oh, at first Joan told me fifteen hundred pounds."

Fifteen hundred pounds -- John felt his mouth shape the words. That would pay for a lot of tea, milk, and bullets.

"She asked for an advance, to be paid in cash, so we arranged to meet again --"

"Where?" Sherlock snapped.

"Here. I must say that the other Sherlock is a more, more _pleasant_ person." Clearly, John thought, Emily Brown was unused to being interrupted, but he smiled to himself.

"Pleasantries are a waste of my time," Sherlock said, "particularly when I am being lied to. You met here with the money?"

"I had the notes in my hand when Joan said, 'No, I said fifteen thousand pounds.'" She stopped abruptly. John guessed that even to her fifteen thousand pounds was a lot.

John gently touched the back of her hand where it lay on the table next to her cup. "We want to help," he said. "You've been fooled, and now they are trying to extort money from you. Let us fix this. There's no one like Sherlock, the real Sherlock. He's brilliant and he'll sort this out for you." He stared into her eyes, willing her to believe him. And why shouldn't she? he thought. It's true enough.

She took a slow deep breath, then pulled her hand away and rested it against her forehead. "I can't sleep," she whispered. "I can't think. If my husband finds out . . ."

John glanced at Sherlock. He hated infidelity and had made no secret of his contempt for those who engaged in it. He had never, since John had known him, taken a case for someone who'd betrayed another. But this was different, he thought hard at Sherlock. His pale eyes flicked toward John and his face softened.

"They threatened to expose my, my affair with Jamie to my husband if I didn't pay. Frankly, I think my husband might be a bit relieved if I took a lover, but Jamie would be sacked. I couldn't let that happen."

"You also still hoped for the return of your earring," Sherlock said.

Brown laughed sadly. "Absurd, isn't it. I still hoped my blackmailers would rescue me." She plucked a tissue from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. "I have a fair bit of discretionary money, but I realized this would stretch out forever. I couldn't think what to do. If only I hadn't written to you!"

"But you did, and now you have nowhere else to turn, unless you're willing to go to the police." Sherlock smiled, not one of his nice smiles. "But you have us."

John felt ridiculously chuffed at Sherlock's use of the word _us_ , and found himself sitting up straighter. "Let me give you Sherlock's real card," he said. He watched as she tucked it into her little wallet.

Sherlock said, "You must call me instantly when they next contact you. When will that be?"

"Joan said she'd get back to me in a week, but she didn't specify what date."

"Giving you time to worry," John said. "But don't. Sherlock will take care of this. He's actually quite brilliant."

"That's exactly what Joan said about her Sherlock," Brown said.

"But she was _wrong_ ," John said firmly, and felt Sherlock's foot tap his.

Without another word, all three rose. John shook Emily Brown's hand, then she stretched out her arm to Sherlock. John had time to study: he noticed the deep rose fingernail colour, the loose wrist watch with a chain of what were probably diamonds, and a delicate Claddagh ring on her right ring finger, the heart pointing toward her hand. To John's surprise, Sherlock did not take her hand. Slowly she lowered it, clasping her handbag. She looked nervous again.

After a very long and uncomfortable moment, Sherlock said, "Do you remember my instructions?"

"Call you the instant they contact me."

"And do not, I repeat, do _not_ meet them anywhere. Not in your home, not at a Starbucks, not in public. John and I will handle that."

"Thank you," she whispered. She bowed her head for a moment and John knew that she felt the weight of Sherlock's disapproval of their behaviour, and her own, he supposed. Then she left without another look or word.

John sat back down then jumped up. "Eat your bloody swirl," he said, a little irritated with Sherlock. "I'll get us more coffee. No, I'm getting us _tea_."

"Yes, John," Sherlock said and to John's surprise took a bite of the pastry.

The snow had started again by the time they left. Sherlock wanted to flag down a cab but John said, "No, we can't afford it." Sherlock scowled at him but walked briskly for several minutes until they reached the tube station. Then he flagged a cab. By then John was wet and cold, so he climbed in without protest, thinking of the fifteen hundred pounds the other Sherlock had charged. He shook his head. They needed to up their rates for private cases.

"Look," John said once settled next to Sherlock. "This would never have happened if you would answer your email more quickly. Let me draft a couple of standard responses for you send out right away. One says no, never, not interested, and the other says you will consider it. That way you won't give anybody time to, uh, intervene." He thought a bit more. "Also, maybe people's emails to you shouldn't be on a forum, but private. If only you can see them, only you can answer."

Sherlock made the hand wave that John had learned meant _dull_ , but he did nod agreement, so that was something. Too bad John was so bad at computer stuff, he thought. He'd have to bully Sherlock to do it, or figure it out himself. The odds of that, he admitted silently, were slim. So bully Sherlock it would be.

"Would you have taken the case?" John asked when the cab turned into Baker Street.

"Adultery is so boring," Sherlock said. The cab drew to a stop and he climbed out, leaving John to pay.

"And blackmail?" John called after him.

"Less so," Sherlock said, and turned his head enough for John to see his mouth curled into a small smile.

Lestrade rang that night and they were off on an official police case, one involving what had originally been thought to be the work of a serial killer. Sherlock quickly saw it was a suicide cluster -- _No, they really were suicides this time_ , he told the Gravesend police while Lestrade watched with folded arms and narrowed eyes.

"You're sure?" Lestrade had asked, but only later, out of hearing of all others. Sherlock sneered at him, so John punched his upper arm. "John," Sherlock complained, but said to Lestrade, "Yes, quite confident. I'll give a statement tomorrow."

"You'll give one tonight," Lestrade said, winking at John. "Thanks. Don't leave!" He returned to his local colleague, Lestrade's friend who had asked for Sherlock's help and who eyed Sherlock and John with puzzlement but tipped a finger to them.

Sherlock pointed his nose in the air and turned his head. John smiled apologetically as he turned, shoving his hands in his pockets and strolling beside Sherlock. They walked away from the flashing red lights of the Panda cars and emergency response vehicles into the quiet streets of early morning Gravesend. "That the Town Pier?" he asked.

To his surprise, Sherlock responded. "I've always wanted to walk the Saxon Shore Way."

"Starts here, doesn't it," John remembered. "We could walk a bit of it. Maybe see The Swale."

"Maybe," Sherlock murmured. They walked down to the Town Pier, but it wasn't open so they just leaned against a cold metal balustrade and watched the dark river. Its smell was rich and fecal and the river air was bitterly cold. John shivered, and missed 221B horribly. "A few days ago I submitted a faux case to my website," Sherlock said abruptly.

"Rather than wait to hear from Emily Brown? So you think the phony Sherlock will, what, try to get in ahead of you?" Sherlock nodded. "Good idea."

"Yes, it was." John rolled his eyes. "They've already responded." Sherlock held out his phone so John could read the email. _I will consider your case. Meet at the Boathouse Cafe, Regent's Park, Tuesday, 11am._ It was Sunday night -- no, John realized, it was Monday morning. In the pale glimmer of moonlight reflected off the river, John could see Sherlock's pleased smile. He shivered.

A Panda rolled up and Lestrade's voice called to them. "No scarpering off, chaps; we need a bit more information." Sherlock sighed. John steered him into the back seat of the car, but he was trying to imagine Tuesday morning in the park.

It had snowed a bit while they'd been away from London and they returned to a city capped by white mounds, just starting to melt. John thought it very pretty but he was tired of being cold. He needed new boots, thicker socks, a heavier jumper, he decided, and hoped for another private case soon. A real one, not the fake one Sherlock had cooked up to catch their impostors. Well, he could afford the socks, John decided.

When they started out the door Tuesday morning, Sherlock silently handed John a long wool scarf. "For, around," Sherlock said, gesturing at his own throat, and frowned.

"Thanks," John said. Sherlock nodded brusquely and clattered down the stairs. "Come along, John," he called, and John grinned to himself and followed, twisting the scarf around his neck.

They walked quickly, though the pavement had iced over in the night. "Hey," John said, grabbing at Sherlock when he skidded, and then Sherlock slipped and had to grab John, and then they were giggling again, clutching each other as they tried to stay upright. In the park it was worse; Sherlock kept them off the main paths but the lawns were stiff with frost, tussocky and unkempt, and they had to move slowly. John gave up and wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist; it was warmer and felt safer. "What's the plan?" he whispered when Sherlock drew them to a halt.

"This way," Sherlock whispered back. The hair on the back of John's neck stood up as they unsteadily trod the icy grass. Sherlock walked them behind the cafe, a semi-stealthy semi-circle, crouching behind trees and shrubs as they searched for their doppelgängers.

"It's still early," John said, but then he saw them. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and they froze, watching.

About fifty metres away, they were too distant for John to see their faces but he knew it was them. One was tall and thin, wearing dark trousers, a purple shirt, and a flowing black cape. She had tied a grey patterned scarf around her throat, and her hair looked expensive: cut beautifully in glossy black curls. Despite the superficial resemblance, though, she was nothing like Sherlock. Yes, she moved gracefully, but to John's eye she was missing the spark that made Sherlock so instantly recognizable, so utterly _Sherlock_.

Then he saw the woman with her, his counterpart, Joan. She was a lot shorter than her partner, and she was, John thought, _voluptuous_. Her hair was a brighter blonde than his, nearly shoulder length and wavy, parted on one side, the other side held back with a clip. She wore a leather jacket not unlike his own, suede ankle-high boots, blue jeans, and an oatmeal coloured cableknit sweater over a dark blue shirt. Her jacket was open revealing the swell of her sweater over her breasts, and when she turned to look up at her friend, John stared at her round bottom. "Um," he said. "Pretty women, both of them."

"Not my area," Sherlock responded. "But you agree that those are the women Emily Brown described."

"Oh yeah," he said. "It's weird, watching them." He glanced at Sherlock and saw he was watching them as avidly as John had been. He turned back.

The female Sherlock was trying to light a cigarette, but Joan was having none of it. She put her hands on her hips, which only emphasized her hourglass figure, then smacked the cigarette out of her friend's hand. The other Sherlock stared at her in disbelief and then laughed, and Joan joined in. John realized he was smiling. They looked happy together.

"Let's go and meet them," Sherlock said, and they began walking as quickly as they could over the rough and frosty lawn, shouldering their way around snow-frosted shrubbery. Immediately the female Sherlock saw them. She grabbed her partner's hand and pulled her away. Joan glanced over her shoulder and to John's shock grinned at them. Then she waved, a carefree gesture, and bounded away. They were on a gravel path and able to move faster, twisting between couples and families. He saw they held on to each other as they ran.

"Heading toward York Gate," Sherlock said. John stumbled once over something hidden in the grass and Sherlock grabbed his hand to haul him upright. They ran faster.

"Can. You. See. Them?" John panted, envying yet again Sherlock's height.

"No, too many people. Oh -- yes, I think. . ." But when they finally reached the gate, there was no sign of them.

"Shit," John said, putting his hands on his knees, breathing deeply. The cold air made him lightheaded.

"Sherlock," a woman called. John jerked up, feet apart, hands up, ready to fight.

"Irene Adler," Sherlock said, and there was something in his voice that John didn't like.

The tall dark-haired woman stepped into view, just inside York Gate. Beside her stood Joan, or whatever her real name was. Joan had one hand on her companion's lower back, the other in her jacket pocket. John thought she might have a weapon. He hoped she wouldn't be tempted to use it in the midst of all these people filing into and out of the park.

"I suppose it was too good to last," Irene sighed. "But it was fun, pretending to be you."

"How many?" Sherlock asked.

Irene looked at Joan, who said, "Cases? Only a half dozen or so." Her voice was deeper than John had expected, and a bit raspy. He found it sexy. He wanted to slap himself. Joan grinned at John and Sherlock. "You get some interesting clients."

"You have to stop," Sherlock said.

"I know, I know." Irene sighed dramatically, raising her arms as if on stage bidding farewell to an adoring audience. "You are a lucky man."

"Go back to America," Sherlock said. "Or to Europe. But get out of England."

She tossed her curls but said nothing. She reached for Joan who instantly took her hand. The two of them stood together, backs straight, eyes bright, posture fierce. John started toward them but Joan motioned with her hand in her pocket. "Not another step," she said in her husky voice. He stopped, glanced up at Sherlock, who put his hand on John's shoulder.

"They're leaving," he said.

"Are you?" John asked them. He felt angry, and curious, and livid, a tiny bit aroused, and very confused.

Irene smiled at them, her cold, knowing smile. "John, this is my friend Iris." She turned to Iris, who rose onto her toes and kissed Irene, once, then twice, and then they wrapped their arms around each other, and there, in the middle of noisy families and old folks and groundskeepers, they kissed passionately, Iris arching into Irene's body, Irene holding her tenderly. When they pulled their faces away from the kiss, they smiled at each other.

"She won't stay with you, Iris," Sherlock said, and his voice was husky, too. He had to speak out to be heard above the crowd; a crocodile of school children passed between them. "She never does." John's heart hurt and he forced himself to remain still, not clutch at Sherlock's arm.

"That's all right," Iris called back, turning to look first at John and then at Sherlock. "Even the little bit I've had was worth everything." She kissed Irene again, then stepped away. "Isn't that right, John? We'll take whatever we can, whatever little crumb they'll condescend to leave us." He stared at her, still caught in Irene's arms, their faces glowing in the cold weather. "Come along, Reena," Iris said. "Time to go."

Sherlock stepped forward quickly and for a terrible moment John thought he was going to ask Irene to stay. Or maybe to go with her.

"You're an idiot, Sherlock," Irene said over her shoulder. Her cape swirled around her, her hair shimmered in the faint winter morning sunlight, and then she and Iris began to run.

Without speaking, John and Sherlock followed, pushing through the crowd. John already knew that Irene and Iris had too big a start on them and the crowd was thicker just outside the gate -- another batch of school children, business people walking hurriedly to their lunch, couples holding hands and staring into each other's eyes. The black cape and short blonde had vanished into the streets of London.

John and Sherlock jogged until they reached Marylebone Road, which meant they had to walk past Madame Tussaud's on their way home, through jittery crowds of American and German and Australian tourists, past their foul smelling tour buses, and then through a rush at the Baker Street tube station. There was no sign of Irene's lean figure in her dramatic cloak or of Iris' bright hair among the crowds.

"Is it getting colder?" John asked and gratefully followed Sherlock up their stairs to 221B.

"It's only December," Sherlock said. "Months more. You need new socks."

John laughed. "Of course you'd notice my socks."

"I notice everything, John." He opened the door to their flat. John half expected to see Irene Adler waiting for them, but they were alone in the dark sitting room.

For some reason, they both walked to the windows. John pulled aside the curtain and looked down into the street. As if summoned by his thoughts, there were Irene and Iris, grinning up at them. Irene took Iris' face in her hands and kissed her, long and lush. John's breath caught in his throat. He forced himself to look away, to look at Sherlock.

Who was looking at him. And, to John's surprise, smiling. John took the step to reach him. "You two are so fucking competitive," he murmured, but that was okay.


End file.
